Читать книгу The Dawn of Reckoning - James Hilton - Страница 14

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Venner, for nearly half a century butler at Chassingford, met Philip at the door of the library one bright October morning. "Miss Stella has been up early to-day," he said suggestively.

Philip looked puzzled. "Really?—Oh, well, it's a nice morning for early rising, eh?"

Venner stared severely at the ground. "I'm afraid, Mr. Philip, you will find she has been meddling with a good many of your things. Not knowing the—er language, sir, I did not know quite how to—to interfere."

"Oh, that's all right, Venner...I'll settle matters."

He laughed, but really he was rather cross, and when he entered the library and took a look round he was crosser still. For the library was his own special preserve, his private and intimate sanctum, where all his books and papers were arranged in neat and orderly fashion. Even his mother would hardly have dared to upset any of those arrangements, much less to create the appearance of utter confusion that now awaited him. To begin with, his desk was heaped up with a miscellany of odd articles—an umbrella, a sporting gun, a thermos flask, a bicycle pump, and what seemed to him the contents of a dressing-table drawer from one of the bedrooms. A similar medley of unclassifiable articles was heaped up round his chair and on the settee...What on earth had she been doing? Was it a practical joke? If so, he must somehow or other take steps to show her that such jokes were neither appreciated nor allowed. If these were Hungarian manners, the sooner they were eradicated the better.

At last she danced into the room, brimful of that triumphant vitality that was somehow more fascinating than her beauty. Even amidst his clear determination to rebuke her, he could not help noticing how the gloomy book-lined library seemed to grow lighter and less funereal as she romped into it. But he did not smile. He wanted her to see that he was angry.

She sat down quickly, laughing and looking about as if proud of her handiwork. Then she held up the thing nearest her (a button-hook) and cried: "Feelip, what—is—zees?"

Then it became clear to him. She had organised this medley in order to learn new words. It had been his earliest way of teaching—holding up something and telling her the name of it. Recently they had come to the somewhat duller business of grammar, and this was no doubt her way of showing preference for the earlier method of tuition. He was amused, but all the same he must still show her that no reason could justify her taking such liberties with his possessions.

"Stella!" he said severely, ignoring the button hook. He stood up so that his tallness should have its full effect. How could he express disapproval?

She stood before him quite demurely, looking perfectly unconscious that she had done anything wrong. On the contrary, her long dark-lashed eyes danced with suppressed glee, as if she imagined that his curious utterance of her name was to be the prelude of something novel and exciting.

An idea struck him. Among the heap of articles on the settee was a short hunting-crop. Supposing he...? Just in dumb-show, to indicate his displeasure.

He waved his hands to indicate the disorder in the room, and frowned heavily. Then he went over to the settee, took up the hunting-crop, and brandished it threateningly.

It was the sort of stupid thing from which what ever cleverness he possessed did not attempt to save him. A moment later he was bitterly regretting it, as he regretted so many of his blunders. For he saw a sudden change come over the girl, saw the joyousness leave her eyes and give place to stark fear, saw her cringe back, forcing herself against the window and holding up her hands in instinctive self-defence. It appalled him, and appalled him so much that he did not even think to drop the weapon...

"Stella!" he cried, approaching her. "Stella—I didn't mean it—I was only—joking..." Then he remembered to drop the hunting-crop. "Stella—my noor little girl—how could you, how could you think I meant it?"

He did not realise the absurdity of speaking in English. And perhaps, after all, it was not so very absurd, for the tone, if not the words, conveyed a meaning. Gradually, at any rate, the fear left her eyes, though the old joyousness did not immediately return. She looked puzzled—relieved certainly, but still doubtful.

"Stella, I'm sorry."

Suddenly her eyes darkened, and with a movement of lightning swiftness she slipped aside her dress and showed him her bare shoulder—plump and brown, but ridged with long dark weals.

"Stella!"

His face was quite white, twitching so much that he had to look away. The spectacle or the revelation of cruelty always frightened him. It cast a spell over him that was half-dreadful, half-fascinating. Some sensitive spot was stirred by it and intoxicated.

Then she laughed—the sharp melodious laughter that he had heard once before as he rode with her through the boulevards of Pesth.

"Stella, don't—please—please—Stella—stop it—" he cried hoarsely.

And she answered, holding up the button-hook which had all the time been in her hand: "Fee-lip what—is—zees?"

The incident was closed.